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I know I promised not to write anymore on the subject, but circumstances have conspired to induce me to take to my laptop once again. It’s now been five months since I stopped breastfeeding BB, and in those months I have felt so under the weather that I hardly remember what it’s like to feel on top of it. It started with an eye infection which took three GPs to diagnose correctly, quickly followed by an ear infection requiring two separate courses of antibiotics. Then there was a tummy bug which lasted a full 4 weeks, forcing me to cancel social events and sending me to bed, twice. Oh, and then there was a nasty mouth ulcer. At first I put the feeling of general malaise down to the ‘fug’ of new motherhood, broken nights that lasted more than a year and running around after a toddler. But surely the fug oughtn’t to last two years. And, on reflection, feeling like I’ve been knocked over the head with a cricket bat by mid afternoon every day isn’t quite right either. […]

So Colin Firth has shed a stone or two, prompting much media back slapping and extolling of the benefits of the ‘man diet’. It’s not clear how he did it – colonic irrigation? Weight Watchers? Hypnotherapy? – but I’m willing to bet his wife played no small part in proceedings, and I’ve not seen her similarly congratulated. I suspect there’s a woman’s hand in this because so far this year Misery Guts has also managed to shed a stone or two embracing the paleo diet, aka the caveman diet, which means no carbs and lots of meat, fish and eggs. It sounds simple enough, but try coming up with decent evening meals with no pasta, potatoes, rice, noodles, grain or bread week in week out. We’re going through 24 eggs a week (the checking of them alone adds 5 minutes to the weekly shop) and of course I’ve inadvertently been on the diet too because I can’t be bothered don’t have the time to prepare two separate meals. […]

If I had a penny for every time I’ve wondered what BB is thinking, I’d be able to buy a new pair of Jimmy Choos by now. And maybe even a matching bag. Here she is (pictured) in the paddling pool at granny and grandpa’s house this weekend, the master of all she surveys. What on earth was she thinking? Is it even possible to ‘think’ when one hasn’t mastered a language yet? And was she in fact feeling, rather than conducting an internal monologue about the sights and smells around her? I’d love to know. Apparently a child has around 100 billion brain cells at birth, and around 50 trillion synaps connecting those cells. By eight months this has increased to 1,000 trillion synaps, but by the age of 20 the number of synaps has decreased to 500 trillion. So you could say she’s in her prime. Unlike me, and probably you, which is alarming stuff. […]

It’s official: all mums-to-be should hermetically seal themselves in a sterile bubble for the entire duration of their pregnancy. According to advice from the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists today, pregnant women should avoid eating or drinking anything from cans or plastic containers, minimise their use of cosmetics and moisturiser and not buy any new furniture to avoid exposure to certain chemicals. It’s a wonder the human race has survived at all. The paper stupidly suggests women take a ‘safety first’ approach – implying mums-to-be are all a bunch of reckless, risk taking half-wits. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so ludicrous. […]

Poor Myleene Klass. As if your husband walking out on you after 6 months of marriage wasn’t bad enough, the singer cum TV presenter cum model is now being accused of attention seeking by revealing she encouraged family and friends to taste her breast milk. Whether she was courting attention or not – isn’t that the job of a sleb? – I don’t see why she’s come under such fire. How is drinking milk produced from a fellow human’s nipple any ‘weirder’ than drinking milk produced from a cow’s udder? At least it’s from the same species. And I don’t buy the public ‘outcry’ either. I think there’s a lot of ye doth protest too much going on. According to a study published in the Sunday Times in 2005, researchers found that one third of fathers had tasted their other half’s breast milk, and it was ‘fairly common’ for the dads to drink it not just once, but often. […]

Misery Guts has sprained his ankle. And don’t we all know it. He fell off a curb while running, and had to be brought home hobbling by his fitness instructor. To be fair it has swollen up to the size of a balloon, but I’m not sure all the grunting and groaning is really necessary. I likened the noise coming out of him last night to the sort of sound emitted when a baby’s head is crowning. He looked at me blankly. ‘What’s crowning?” he asked. If you have to ask… So that’s me on Everything Duty this weekend. He can’t even stand upright. He did manage to make himself a cucumber gin and tonic with capers by himself last night though. Funny that. […]

I have discovered the secret to feeling like the best mummy in the world, even if it’s just for half an hour: batch cooking. Pictured (left) is the product of yesterday afternoon’s endeavours – half a dozen handmade miniature Shepherd’s Pies, each in their own little tin and each with their own little label. There’s something about cooking for BB which seems more important than cooking for anyone else, even (diabetic) Misery Guts and even though she is likely to be the least grateful. Have I cut the carrots as neatly as possible? Check. Have I made sure the cheese isn’t spilling over the side of the tin? Check. Does this dish offer the right balance of protein and carbohydrate? Check. Is omega 3/some other form of fatty acid/at least one of her five-a-day present? Check. […]

Mother’s Day is nearly upon us. Or Migraine Day as it is known is our house. Last year Mothering Sunday was my first as a mother, and I looked forward to it with the anticipation of a child before their birthday. Could I really lie in until 10 o’clock? What a treat! Would I get breakfast in bed? Would we go out for lunch? What would we do in the afternoon? Would cake be involved? Could it really be true that I wouldn’t have to do any cleaning for a whole day? The possibilities were endless. None of the above was true, as it turned out. Misery Guts woke up with the start of one of his migraines, which tends to happen every couple of years. He promptly threw up all over the bathroom, and I mean all over. The sink, the toilet, the side of the bath, the floor, the scales: it was everywhere. […]

Now that my baby’s no longer a baby, and is starting to sleep through the night (I’m afraid to even write it, let alone say it out loud, for fear of relapse) there’s no longer any excuse to use new motherhood as a reason for not getting fit. Getting fit might be a slight exaggeration – I am already fairly fit, but nothing like I was BBB (before BB). BBB I spent several hours a week in the gym on all manner of fancy equipment, but I haven’t set foot in the place since and as a result am rather soft around the edges. So this week I took the bull by the horns and signed up to a taster session of British Military Fitness, aka boot camp style fitness classes run by former or serving members of the military. It seemed the perfect solution: held on the sea front where I live it offers a chance to make the most of the beach, as I pledged to do when we moved here four months ago, plus intensive training packed into a one hour class before Misery Guts leaves for the office. Just the ticket. Oh. My. Goodness. […]

Forget Crummy Mummy. I think I might reinvent myself as Dr Mummy: Medicine Woman. I am feeling mightily pleased with myself following my first foray into self-doctoring. It all started on Thursday when I woke up with an itchy eye. By mid-afternoon it was gummy and weeping, and everything had taken on a decidedly cloudy haze. There was no ignoring it and I realised I’d have to face the infuriating ritual of making an ‘emergency’ doctor’s appointment: phoning the surgery on the dot of 8.30am, pressing ring back, waiting while the phone endlessly rings at the other end only to be answered by the ‘health centre manager’ who then puts me through to reception, only to be asked to hold, etc, etc. After all, I could be blind if I waited until the next available slot in 10 days’ time. […]

I'm a wife, mother, freelance journalist & blogger. Not necessarily in that order. I'm currently expecting baby number three, when I'm told things will REALLY get interesting. Join me as I navigate the previously unchartered territory of motherhood always safe in the knowledge there's a bottle of (alcohol-free) wine in the fridge...

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